


You Don't Remember The Somme?

by Angelica_writes



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Gen, Internal angst, Mourning, Reflection, Shell Shock, Somme, description, ish, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelica_writes/pseuds/Angelica_writes
Summary: Schofield reflects after the first day of the Battle of the Somme (1 July 1916)Schofield thought back to the day’s dawn, a day which held unimaginable horrors, but which seemed to begin so beautifully. The sun as it rose had been invisible behind the bank of smoke, but it flushed the sky with red. It was a truly terrible dawn, most beautiful in its terror, and if ever dawn did indeed come up like thunder, it was this.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	You Don't Remember The Somme?

A calm had descended over the chaos of the battlefield, the only sounds came from those who lay dying in No Man’s Land, the rats scurrying about the trench and filling every nook and cranny, and a few of Schofield’s comrades weeping. The battlefield hadn’t been this quiet mere hours ago; the noise of the artillery still echoed in Schofield’s ears, its devastating blows had caused the rats to run in their thousands in the opposite direction to the flow of men. The worst noise on the Somme was undoubtedly the screaming not of men, although that was bad enough, but of the horses. One beast’s howl of pain had seemed to Schofield as if the animal was protesting against mankind’s brutality and ability to destroy. Despite the hail of bullets and the terrifying nearness of death, that horse’s master refused to leave his comrade’s side in its hour of need. 

Schofield thought back to the day’s dawn, a day which held unimaginable horrors, but which seemed to begin so beautifully. The sun as it rose had been invisible behind the bank of smoke, but it flushed the sky with red. It was a truly terrible dawn, most beautiful in its terror, and if ever dawn did indeed come up like thunder, it was this. Then came the greatest miracle of all, for with rose-flush in the sky the whole bird chorus of morning came to life. Most of the time their voices were inaudible over the pounding of the artillery bombardment that preceded the commencement of battle, but now and again in the intervals of the shattering noise of the killing machines, the birds’ notes pealed up, as if each were struck with frenzy and were striving to shout down the guns. One of Schofield’s fellow soldiers, renowned in the company as intensely superstitious, became convinced that the birds were sounding their warnings of the bloodshed that was to follow. Perhaps he was right. Those birds whose bravery couldn’t withstand the dreadful noise and chaos of battle flew away, into the glare of that beautiful sun, as if taking the souls of thousands of soldiers who were about to meet their deaths with them. 

When the moment came to go over the top, casualties began before the men had even clambered out of the muddy trenches. Schofield couldn’t shake the vision of his captain’s stony expression as he was hit with a sniper clean through the head and just crumpled onto the duckboards. Another face imprinted on Schofield’s mind was that of a German he’d butchered in the hand to hand fighting, the memory of his knobkerrie sinking into the enemy’s forehead and oozing blood. The German’s helmet had flown off, and Schofield had found himself staring into the face of a bald-headed old man, who bore his eyes into Schofield’s as he drew his dying breath. Perhaps worst of all was the experience of retiring, crawling on his hands and knees over the mangled corpses of his former comrades and - worse - those who hadn’t quite yet passed over and were still begging for a medic or screaming for their mothers who were waiting for them at home with fear in their hearts. How cruel the world was, Schofield thought, casting his mind back to the hoards of boys not yet even old enough to shave being shorn down literally in their thousands. 

Mere hours ago, No Man’s Land had been filled with raging men, fighting for their lives. Now it was filled with corpses, bloated horse carcasses with their stiff legs pointing heavenward, and dead men, whose destiny it seemed was to be remembered as a statistic in an infamously devastating battle. It was with a lump in his throat that Schofield surveyed the field of Hell with the trench periscope, but no tears came. It was almost as if the fear and the resentment was so overwhelming that he was utterly incapable of expressing any emotion, something Schofield realised when he sat down to write a letter to his brother, and ended up devoting two pages to the company’s dog and a curt paragraph on the battle that had changed his soul forever. The very same day as so many of his comrades were buried by the filthy mud of Flanders, Schofield forced himself to bury the memories of an experience that his sanity couldn’t permit him to remember. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really enjoyed writing this one! Feedback is really appreciated :)


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